


Sigh No More

by Iturbide



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Body Modification, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, High Fantasy, Metamorphosis, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Religion, Slow Build, Transformation, War, Worldbuilding, no one should be surprised by this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 12:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13741170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iturbide/pseuds/Iturbide
Summary: The Crusader Exalt of Ylisse has kept his crown, and continued to wage his war against their western neighbors.  But something has changed in Plegia: the Heart of Grima has been born anew into the world, and with it, the tides have turned against the halidom's forces.  A disastrous battle and a terrifying undead scourge suddenly put Ylisse at a disadvantage, and with few options available, the Exalt promises the hand of his only son in marriage to the daughter of the Grimleal hierophant.In spite of their tense beginnings, seeds of trust begin to sprout between Grima's Heart and Naga's blessed.  And with time and care, something new begins to bloom...





	Sigh No More

**Author's Note:**

> ~~There's no such thing as too many AUs what are you talking about~~
> 
> A little while ago, the amazing [AcquaSole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole) and I were having a discussion, and somehow or another the topic of relationships with monsters came up. You know the sort: werewolves, vampires, etc. And she brought up that you don't usually see women in the role of the monster. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that she was right: in media, it's almost always the man who's the monster, and even in folklore where the woman is the non-human (selkies, kitsunes, etc.), invariably it's not a relationship that lasts (usually because the man won't accept her inhuman side). 
> 
> Me? I love monster/human romance stories. And I love inverting common tropes. And I'm always up for a challenge. So this story probably shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. 
> 
> Along with everything else, this story is going to be about Plegia. Awakening does a terrible disservice to Ylisse's western neighbors, painting too many of them as despotic madmen, bloodthirsty rogues, or power-mad zealots. And that's not fair to the myriad, beautiful possibilities that I know Plegia has to offer. So through this piece, I intend to delve deep into the Grimleal nation, their faith and culture and traditions, and give them the fair treatment they so rightly deserve. 
> 
> As usual for my stories, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. And though this story will move rather slowly (the first chapter alone is mostly a prologue, but AO3 doesn't have a prologue option, so Chapter One it becomes), and be almost entirely relationship-driven from the outset rather than conflict-driven, I do hope that you enjoy it.

Mustafa was not a man given to restlessness or nerves. His mother often reminisced about his youth and what a stoic child he’d been, never throwing tantrums or lashing out. As she put it, he built a stronghold of calm around himself, where rage was dismantled and meted out as quiet reason. It had served him well in his apprenticeship, where the frustrations of smithing were tempered and forged into determination and resolve; and then again in his training as a soldier, where the trials and combat tested all his fortifications and left them stronger. 

His level head had brought him far in life. Far enough that the front lines of battle were only painful memories that roused him from sleep; that he saw his wife Shari each day to share a meal with family; and that the greatest trials he had to face involved a wilful woman named Wren, the wife of the hierophant’s son, who was determined to evade her bodyguard at every turn even as her pregnancy advanced into its final months. 

Perhaps that was why he felt so anxious now. The morning had begun as any other: he had greeted Wren from his station by the door as she stirred, welcomed the familiar attendants when they arrived, checked the items they bore for anything out of the ordinary before allowing them past…

...but moments after moving beneath the veiled arch, one of the women had returned and implored him to fetch his wife. Even as he’d risen from his post, several others had hurried past, scattering in the hall beyond -- and as he’d left the quiet wing where the hierophant’s family resided, he saw the first of the attendants returning with the midwife in tow.

He had not hesitated again.

He’d been barred entry when they returned and left to stand guard while Shari was escorted into the halls beyond. And so he waited for word, watching the sunlight creep across polished floor, not daring to leave his post for fear that someone would come the moment he stepped away. Gods, but the wait was intolerable…

The sun had begun its descent by the time one of Wren’s attendants finally arrived, a warm, weary smile on her face. “A girl,” she breathed. “Healthy and strong like her mother.”

“Thank Grima,” he sighed, tracing the Mark along his brow and cheeks. “Are men allowed within yet?”

The woman had only time enough to nod before he hurried off, striding through the latticework patches of sunlight painting the stone. He heard movement ahead, soft speech, and quickened his step as he rounded a bend in the corridor--

“I-I have to go, I ha-a-ave t…”

He barely recognized the voice, it was so weak. Worse was the woman it came from, her face ashen and her shift bloody as she struggled to walk. “Please, Wren,” Shari pleaded, holding the pale-haired woman up yet somehow unable to pull her back. “You just gave birth, you can’t push yourself like this--”

“What’s going on?” Mustafa demanded, striding up to his wife and taking a firm, gentle hold of Wren’s other arm. Shari cast a grateful look toward him -- but the other woman only gripped his fingers, her hand shaking as she turned a desperate look on the warrior. 

“He took my baby,” she whimpered. 

“Who?” he pressed. 

“Her husband. The hierophant’s son,” Shari replied. “He arrived just after the birth, and as soon as he saw the child, he took her and vanished…”

“She has Grima’s Heart,” Wren whispered. 

Mustafa’s breath caught in his throat. “Is that true?” he asked, looking to his wife. 

Shari nodded, one trembling hand tracing the Mark on her face. “I saw it. On the babe’s right hand. A birthmark, six Eyes…”

“He’s going to hurt her,” Wren sobbed. “He’s going to do somethi-ing terrible, I kn- _know_ he i-is, I have to sto-op him, he can-n’t have gone f-fa-ar, I ha-ave to--”

“You need to rest,” he heard his wife insist. But the pale-haired woman refused to listen, taking another unsteady step…

“I’ll find them.”

Both women stopped, looking up at the soldier as he patted Wren’s fingers. “I will go,” he promised. “I will find him. But your babe will need her mother: you must rest until I return.”

“Do you swear?” she pleaded. 

“You have my oath,” Mustafa assured her. “But you _must_ rest. Go with Shari.”

“Thank you,” Wren whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Thank you, Mustafa, thank you…”

“Thank you,” his wife repeated, laying a hand gently on his arm as she turned the pale-haired woman back toward her rooms. “Take care, My Heart. You know better than I what Validar is capable of.”

“I’ll be on my guard,” he murmured, squeezing Shari’s fingers. “I’ll return to you, My Heart. And I’ll bring Wren’s Heart with me.”

But as he strode past the two women, he prayed to Grima that he would find that heart still beating. 

\-----

In hindsight, perhaps he should have expected Validar’s course of action. The hierophant’s son had always been a man obsessed with ritual, who took the Grimleal writings to their utmost extremes. And yet, it was only when he saw the dark clouds spiraling out from the Dragon’s Table that Mustafa realized just what Validar had set in motion. 

The sun had nearly set by the time his horse reached the base of the tower. The air within tasted of lightning and ash, and the very stones cried out as he raced up the winding stairs. 

He had never laid eyes on the altar before. It had long been the site of the most sacred ceremonies, those that only the upper echelons of the Grimleal had ever been allowed to witness. But any beauty in that place could not overcome the grim sight that met him as he burst onto the ritual stage: the colored stones radiating out from the central pedestal had been strewn with bones and feathers, claws and shells, leaves and thorns, ordered into complex hexing arrays unlike any he had seen before. Violet lightning leapt between pillars of flame, casting flickering shadows across the walls -- but even as he struggled to understand the sight before him, they began to die, the fires subsiding into their braziers and leaving the altar cloaked in darkness. 

A furious roar shook the room. Mustafa watched several mages scatter before the hierophant’s son, his bloody nails raking at his hair and face as he stormed the length of the chamber. “What went wrong!?” he demanded, grabbing one of the Grimleal by the front of his robes and hefting him into the air. 

“I don’t know!” the man whimpered. “We followed your instructions precisely, Master Validar, I swear we did…”

“What have you done?” Mustafa breathed. 

Validar turned toward the warrior, casting the mage aside. “What business do you have here?” he growled as Mustafa approached. 

The hierophant’s son did not flinch as the soldier grabbed him by the collar of his cloak. _“What have you done?”_ he repeated, the tremor in his voice betraying the rage crashing against the walls of his inner fortress. 

“That is no concern of yours,” Validar sneered, swatting Mustafa’s hands away and straightening his robes. 

“Where is the baby?” the warrior demanded. 

The sorcerer’s gaze darted toward the center of the room, and the podium beneath the central skylight. The last light of day had long since been extinguished, but in the first rays of moonlight he could see a small bundle wrapped in black cloth atop the pedestal…

...and something dark dripping down its sides.

He could hear Validar speaking. But he paid no more attention to the hierophant’s son. His every step felt leaden as he crossed the chamber, mounted the stairs etched with Grima’s Eyes, and gently drew back the blanket. 

His heart tore within his breast at the sight of Wren’s infant daughter. She was truly a beautiful babe, with fine locks the same shade as her mother’s...but the sorcerer’s ritual had, even in failure, left its mark: her hair was red and matted around the nubs of tiny horns, dark scales covered much of her chest and sides, and as he lifted her from the pedestal a pair of crumpled wings covered in bloody down unfolded from her back. The child did not stir as he cradled her, her skin felt chill when he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers...and even when he touched her hand, lifting it to see the tiny six-eyed mark branded upon her skin, her delicate fingers did not curl around his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, laying the babe back within her blankets and wrapping them around her once more. If he’d been quicker, had greater forethought, perhaps he could have saved her…

“What are you doing?” Validar demanded as Mustafa gathered the bundle into his arms.

“I’m returning this child to her mother,” the warrior replied, his voice hoarse in his own ears as he marched down the steps. 

He heard the hierophant’s son approaching, felt the skeletal hand on his shoulder. “How _dare_ you--”

Mustafa whirled, grabbing Validar’s wrist in a crushing grip that made the sorcerer’s eyes narrow. “How dare _you,_ ” he growled, “doing _this_ to _anyone,_ let alone a _newborn babe and your own daughter._ I should run you through where you stand.”

A smile carved its way across the man’s gaunt face as he snatched his hand back. “What brave words. Now give me back the vessel.”

“Her soul has gone to Grima,” Mustafa murmured, cradling the dark bundle to his chest. “Her mother must be allowed to mourn.”

“I am not finished here--”

“But we still don’t know why the ritual failed,” one of the Grimleal interrupted. “Shouldn’t we find the source before…”

As the hierophant’s son whirled on the mage, the warrior turned and left the platform, his steps and heart heavy as he picked his way down the spiral stairs leading to the ground below. The hopes and dreams of the Plegian people, and the heart of a new mother, all broken by one man’s conceit and zealotry. 

No rage could mend this tragedy. No calm could make it right. 

As he turned his horse back toward the capital, the silent babe tucked in the crook of his arm, Mustafa wept. 

\-----

The moon had climbed high by the time he arrived at Wren’s rooms. Steeling himself, he moved inside, drawing in a breath to speak--

“Mustafa!”

His heart ached at the call. As Shari’s arms wrapped around him, he held her close, lowering his head against her shoulder. “I was so worried about you, My Heart,” she breathed. “Did you find them?”

A new wave of grief threatened to overwhelm him as he drew back, turning toward the bed as Wren struggled upright. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, crossing the room to kneel beside her. “I couldn’t find him in time. I’m sorry…”

The woman’s face twisted in despair as he offered up the bundle, the long-dried blood leaving the fabric stiff to the touch. Even still, Wren gathered it to her chest, gently drawing aside the blankets and stroking the infant’s fine hair, her fingertips flinching away as they met one of the tiny horns. “What did he do to her?” she whimpered. 

Mustafa shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t begin to guess. He called her...a vessel -- he might have been attempting to raise Grima, body and soul, I...I’m sorry, Wren…”

The woman sobbed, cradling her babe against her breast. Mustafa bowed his head as Shari crouched by his side, her arms curling around his trembling shoulders--

A fragile whimper met his ear. 

And as he raised his head, the newborn in Wren’s arms stirred, a tiny cry wavering on the air. “She survived?” he breathed, rising slowly to his feet while Shari hurried across the room, collecting a shallow basin of water and a soft cloth to clean away the blood on the child’s skin. 

“She’s strong,” Shari crooned, working gently on the babe’s matted locks. “Just like her mother, indeed.”

“Stronger than me,” Wren laughed as the infant began to suckle. “She has Grima’s Heart, after all.”

A smile crept across the warrior’s face. “We should ensure that word reaches the king of the Heart’s birth,” he murmured. “What is her name?”

Wren turned a radiant smile on him, her fingers piecing tenderly through her daughter’s hair. “Robin.”


End file.
